by Finley Aaron
But Ella skipped through it all, eyes bright, alert to whatever might come.
She found the calf down the road and brought him home, then decided to weed the front gardens, which were long overdue for attention. It was while she was busy with this work that the royal messenger arrived on horseback, creamy-white paper folded in his hand, impressed with the royal seal.
Ella hopped up from her weeding, brushed the dirt from her hands onto her apron, and greeted him.
“A message,” he declared, holding out the paper, “for Lady Ella of Caprese.”
“I’m Lady Ella of Caprese,” Ella told him, and held out her hand.
The messenger looked at her hand, which still had dirt under the fingernails from weeding the garden. He sniffed. “The Lady of the house.”
“I am the lady of the house,” Ella insisted.
He handed over the paper with marked reluctance, and rode away.
Ella looked at her name on the outside for only an instant before breaking the seal and reading the words inside.
Lady Ella of Caprese,
You are hereby invited to a royal ball in honor of Prince Henry, which will be given this coming Saturday at 7 in the evening, at King Henry’s castle in Charmont. This invitation is required for admission.
Cordially,
The Royal House of Charmont
Hardly had Ella finished reading the words when Madame De Bouchard crept up from behind her and snatched the paper from her hand.
“That’s not yours,” Ella protested, reaching for it. “Give it back.”
“Silence!” Madame shouted. “Don’t touch it—you’ll tear it in half!”
Ella had read the part about needing the invitation to get into the ball, and knew Madame was heartless enough to tear it herself if she felt so inclined. That wasn’t something Ella could risk, not when there was some possibility that she might see Henry again.
Granted, he hated her. But she’d wished her wish, and surely the invitation had arrived because of that. Everything would work out all right now. Saturday was only four days away.
Ella withdrew her hand.
Agatha and Bertha called to their mother from the doorway, asking what the message was about.
Madame Augusta read the note to herself while they questioned her, then barked at them, “Girls, come here!”
The two girls spilled outside, tripping over one another as they each fought to be first.
“What is it?” Agatha asked.
Bertha elbowed her in the ribs.
Madame De Bouchard ignored them. “You are hereby invited to a royal ball in honor of Prince Henry, which will be given this coming Saturday at 7 in the evening, at King Henry’s castle in Charmont. This invitation is required for admission. Cordially, The Royal House of Charmont,” she read aloud.
“It’s the ball!” Agatha squealed before her mother had even quite finished.
“The ball everyone’s been talking about for days and days,” Bertha added.
“What ball?” Ella asked. She was never allowed to accompany the girls when they went visiting around to the other noble houses in the area, so she was the last to hear any of the gossip. Normally this didn’t bother her, but if it involved Prince Henry, she was willing to put aside even the embarrassment of acknowledging her ignorance in front of her step-sisters, to ask what they knew.
Madame led them all back inside the house. “The prince turns twenty years old this fall. He’s expected to marry at that age. He was supposed to have met royal princesses while on the tournament circuit, but that’s yielded nothing, so now they’re opening up to the idea of noble ladies.”
Ella listened in shocked surprise. She’d never noticed Henry paying any attention to royal princesses at the tournaments, though of course they were always in the stands, and often awarded prizes to the winners of their favorite events. She, herself, had once been kissed on the cheek by a princess after winning at swords, but she couldn’t recall when Henry ever had.
Madame De Bouchard continued, “The prince has made a deal with his father. He’ll choose a bride at the ball in exchange for being allowed to marry beneath him. Given how unpopular the Royal House of Charmont has become, what with the trade blockade and high taxes, I’m sure the king is hoping the event will improve their esteem in the eyes of all the people.” She laughed.
But her laughter was drowned out by Agatha and Bertha, who were holding hands and jumping up and down and squealing, “A bride! He’ll choose a bride! We’re invited! He might choose me!” And other similar statements all run together on top of one another.
“But, it’s my invitation,” Ella corrected Madame.
The girls didn’t even hear her.
“Nonsense.” Madame walked swiftly away. “I’m the lady of the house. It was meant for me.”
Ella watched her walk away, and contemplated running after her to reclaim her invitation. But rather than risk tearing it, Ella simply followed the woman at a distance, and watched where she went.
Madame entered her room and closed the door after her, so Ella couldn’t see where she put the paper.
But Ella didn’t care. She’d wished her wish, and the fact that the invitation had arrived the very next morning was enough to fuel her hope.
Everything might yet turn out all right. She had until Saturday to get the invitation back, but she needed to do several other things before then, too. The invitation wasn’t going anywhere. It would wait.
Agatha and Bertha insisted on having new gowns for the ball. Since there were no new silks to be had anywhere, this meant repurposing old dresses, which normally wouldn’t have been too much work, but Agatha and Bertha had grown.
Lounging about the house all day eating, both girls had widened significantly. To disguise their fuller figures, they required even fuller skirts.
For Agatha, who was the larger of the two, Ella found a gown her own mother had worn while pregnant, and adjusted the size to fit Agatha’s frame. Bertha was trickier to fit, since there were no other gowns large enough to encompass her. Finally, Ella struck upon the idea that they could take advantage of Bertha’s short frame, borrow fabric from the bottom hem of a dress, and patch it back in around the waist.
Bertha wasn’t happy about this. “It’s got extra seams. I’m going to look odd!”
“I can drape an extra panel around the bust,” Ella offered. “That will detract from the seam work while enhancing your figure.”
Though Bertha continued to moan and complain, she seemed secretly pleased, especially when she learned all the extra sewing would keep Ella busy another day.
“When you’re done helping the girls with their dresses, my wardrobe needs attention, too,” Madame informed her.
“Yes, of course,” Ella agreed. She hadn’t any choice in the matter, and anyway, she’d hoped to come up with something to make a dress for herself. Bertha and Ella had cast off petticoats they didn’t ever want to see again, but Ella had no silks to sew for herself.
She finished sewing for Agatha and Bertha on Friday afternoon, at which time the girls modeled their gowns for their mother. Ella had hoped to slip away then, but Madame De Bouchard demanded she stay.
Augusta circled the girls in their gowns, peering close with her pince-nez glasses held to her eyes, inspecting Ella’s handiwork.
Ella got the distinct sense she’d been retained in the room in order to be present for Madame Augusta’s every criticism. But Madame said nothing, only scowled and clucked her tongue, mostly at the added seams on the waist of Bertha’s gown, and of course, those couldn’t be helped.
“Very well,” Madame announced finally, straightening. “Girls, remove the dresses. Ella, hang everything smoothly, and then join me in my room for a consultation.”
Ella did as she was told, wondering all the while what her consultation would entail. Usually Madame told her what to do. There was rarely any consulting to it. And it didn’t seem likely the woman had developed respect for Ella’s opinion. No, s
he was up to something, almost certainly.
Madame was standing before her wardrobe when Ella arrived.
“Madame Augusta?” Ella said, mostly to let the woman know she was there.
Madame didn’t turn, and didn’t acknowledge her other than to start talking. “I’ll wear my black gown. It’s the most flattering.” She pulled a dress from the closet.
It was not black, but a peculiar shade of greenish brown, more brown than green, almost precisely the same color as fresh cattle droppings.
“What do you think of this one?” Madame asked.
Ella suspected this was the consultation she’d been summoned for. “That’s a very fine silk,” she offered, having nothing better to say about the gown, which had neither flattering cut nor added adornment to make up for its questionable color.
“Take it.” Madame thrust it into her hands. “Try it on, then come back down to help me with my gown. You can alter that in your spare time. I suspect you may have need of it.”
“Thank you, Madame Augusta.” Ella hurried up the stairs and slipped into the dress, her fingers trembling.
What did it mean? Why was Madame giving her a dress? Would she be going to the ball after all?
She’d wished her wish. Things were supposed to get better. Was this the beginning?
But as Ella stood before the bent flat of metal that served as her mirror (nothing as fine as the polished bronze downstairs) she viewed her reflection and wanted to cry.
The green of the brown made her yellow hair look greenish. It turned her skin a sickly pallor as well, and the cut was as unflattering as any garment could ever be.
She’d looked better in her armor.
Worst of all, the dress smelled of Madame—her perfume and her sweat.
“Ella!” Madame snapped from downstairs. “What is taking you so long, Child? We have work to do!”
Ella rushed down the stairs, where she was required to spin slowly for her step-mother, and to pretend to be happy with the dress, and say grateful things even though the dress was awful. Madame was wearing her black dress by then, and wanted it altered to fit the current style, which meant Ella had to stand close to her and pin everything very carefully, while Madame barked at her with her horrid breath in her face.
They’d only just finished with the pinning when the front door opened and a man burst inside.
Madame, who stood between Ella and the doorway, and therefore blocked most of Ella’s view, greeted the newcomer.
“Thomas! You’re finally home!”
Thomas? Ella looked past her stepmother and immediately recognized the man who’d left nearly three months before with her father and brother.
Her heart filled with a dizzying rush of hope. Her wish had worked after all! The men were finally home, and everything would be fine. Her father would tell Madame that Ella needed to have a proper ball gown, and somehow she’d explain everything to Henry so he’d understand.
“I am home,” Thomas acknowledged. “Barely. We’ve had such an ordeal as you could not imagine.”
“Oh?” Madame asked. “Did you get the carts through? Will we be wealthy again?”
Thomas shook his head. “Nothing made it through. Nothing. They’re holding them still, and they’ve taken the other horses as well. Robert is dead and Bertie imprisoned. I only just made it out with my life.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Oh.” Madame clucked her tongue. “You’re quite sure about that? Robert is dead?”
“Quite dead, Augusta. I saw the fatal blow inflicted before my own eyes. Horrible, horrible, the pain and the blood.”
“I’ve been widowed again.” Madame sighed, then laughed. “And I’m already wearing black. How timely.”
Ella froze, unable to move, hardly able to think.
It had to be some kind of cruel trick. Her father could not be dead. Madame wasn’t responding like a woman who’d just learned her husband had died.
Then again, Madame didn’t love Robert. She’d only married him because…well, why had she married him? What was in it for her? Was it…because she liked the idea of living at Caprese with Ella as her servant?
But she’d had Ella as her servant before, and other handmaids besides.
“Ella, fetch us some tea,” Madame instructed her. “Cousin Thomas and I will be in the parlor. He’ll want something substantial to eat after his long journey. Find us some meat.”
Madame went, pins and all, toward that room.
Ella retreated to the kitchen and prepared tea, her hands so used to the task she didn’t have to think about what she was doing, which was good, because her thoughts were spinning.
Her father couldn’t be dead. But Thomas said he was quite dead.
Thomas had to be lying.
Then again, she’d thought Madame was lying when she’d told her about her mother’s death of a fever, but that hadn’t been a lie at all. Not only was there a mound of earth marked by a stone in the church cemetery, but Ella’s own feet had fit the glass slippers.
Her mother was certainly dead.
And likely, her father was, too.
That meant Caprese would fall to her brother. But if he was captured, he couldn’t claim it. Could Madame claim Caprese?
Of course she could, or Thomas on her behalf.
Was that why Madame Augusta had married her father? Had she been plotting all along to take their estate?
Ella couldn’t see how the woman could have predicted this turn of events. No one could have. But it had happened, and Madame didn’t seem at all upset by it.
In fact, as Ella carried a tray of tea and crackers and cheese and sausages into the parlor, Madame seemed as happy as she’d ever been.
Ella placed the tray on the table, served both Madame and Thomas, and then asked, “Where is my brother imprisoned?”
Thomas had his teacup to his lips and didn’t answer immediately, but Madame snapped at her, “Ella, Master Thomas has just had a long journey. Don’t pester him with questions.”
“He’s in Devin,” Thomas informed her bluntly. “In the dungeon of the old Roman fortress.”
“And what is his crime?” Ella pressed.
“Illegal transport of goods. Our eastern neighbors have made it illegal to transport anything through their territory. Those who try are fined. If they persist, they are imprisoned.”
“For how long?”
“Indefinitely.” Thomas shrugged and sipped his tea.
“Political nonsense,” Madame huffed, shooing Ella away. “Get on. Thomas left his horse at the fountain. Tend to the beast.”
“Yes, Madame.” Ella curtsied and took her leave. She found the horse out front. It wasn’t one of their own Arabians, but some other animal Ella had never seen. She led it to the barn and removed the saddle and gear before brushing the animal down.
All the while, her thoughts were racing. She had to get her brother out of prison, and their horses back, as well. She would have liked to get their carts of goods so she could pay all the taxes and pay off Madame, but if Thomas was right and the transport of goods was no longer legal, she would have no choice but to leave everything behind.
She wasn’t happy about that, but what did it matter, after all? Everything else paled against the necessity of getting her brother back.
Bertie had to return, and not just because she couldn’t stand the idea of her brother being locked away in prison. Everything else hinged on his safe return.
Inheritance laws were complicated, especially in unusual circumstances such as theirs. Widows tended to retain ownership rights, especially if they had a son. If the son was biologically the widow’s and not yet of age, the property would fall to the mother as steward until the son came of age. But since Madame was only a recent addition to the family, and since Bertie would stand to inherit as soon as he came of age, they could make a case to get rid of Madame, but only if Bertie was there to claim the estate.
As long as Bertie remained imprisoned in Devin, Madame
De Bouchard would control everything.
But how was Ella supposed to get her brother back? She’d have to succeed where her father and brother had failed, which meant she’d need some advantage they hadn’t had. But what? She was a girl, and they were men. All she had were disadvantages.
And these new laws—they were nonsense. They were purposely meant to strangle the rest of Europe, and thus far, they’d done a fine job of it. As long as the laws were in place, King Henry and the kings of the nearby kingdoms would continue to lose esteem in the eyes of their people.
The laws needed to be changed. Ella didn’t have the power to do that, but perhaps, if she could explain what she knew to Henry…
But no, he wouldn’t listen to her. Madame De Bouchard had told him such terrible lies about her. If she went to him, he’d turn her over to the guards. He’d send her away and refuse to listen.
Ella pondered all this as the evening grew long. She finished her chores and took Madame’s black dress up to the attic, and sewed the alterations by candlelight.
“If I could just get Henry to listen to me long enough to explain everything to him, perhaps this time he could change his father’s mind,” Ella whispered to me as she sewed. “If nothing else, he could talk to some of the other kings and princes. He knows people. They’d listen to him—but how am I going to get him to listen to me?”
I’d been mulling over the same question, and had an idea.
“He’s got to be polite at the ball, doesn’t he?” I asked Ella.
“I suppose.”
“He can’t make a scene and send you away, not in front of everyone,” I added.
Ella nodded. “If Augusta is right, the king is trying to earn back the people’s approval. They’re going to be on their best behavior.”
I fluttered next to her face, excited. “If you could get to the ball and dance with him, you could explain everything. You could even tell him that Madame lied, and explain that you’re noble after all.”
“Perhaps. I could try, anyway. He has no reason to believe me, not since Madame painted me to be a dishonest child of many fanciful notions. But it’s either that or ride off to Devin all by myself, and I can’t see how that would end any better. The ball’s tomorrow night. If I can get my invitation back, or find a way to forge one—I can picture it exactly, so maybe I could make one to look like it—somehow, I could get in and see Henry.”
